


so high, so wild

by ohtempora



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: "You do this for all the reporters?" Clark asks."Only the pretty ones," Bruce says.





	so high, so wild

**Author's Note:**

> set very vaguely sometime after the movie! 
> 
> title from 'die young' by sylan esso but the original gdoc was called "alleyway beej" so, well.

Bruce Wayne knows the value of a good suit. It's clear, even to Clark, who has aspirations towards better ones than he can afford, but knows good craftsmanship when he sees it.

The suit in question is wool, charcoal grey, set off by a silk tie in oxblood. Flashes of silver at his neck and wrists, too.

"You look good," Clark murmurs, like he has any right to say that in old lumberjack plaid and creased khakis. "I like the suit."

"Thanks," Bruce says, a smile, a flash of white teeth, and then he drops to his knees. 

They're in a Gotham alleyway, and Clark muffles the urge to laugh hysterically. A Gotham alleyway at dusk-- a bad place to be for normal people, a worse place to be for the likes of Bruce Wayne-- 

"You're helping me out here," Bruce says, looking up, and there's no way he doesn't know the effect he has. "Too ethical to take money, fine, but you and I both know this story you're planning is beneficial to Wayne Industries."

"You do this for all the reporters?" Clark asks. 

"Only the pretty ones," Bruce says, and then he licks over the front of Clark's khakis, where he's hard in spite of himself. Clark ought to protest. Clark needs to be protesting more than he is. But Bruce is mouthing at him, and when he pops the buttons on Clark’s fly, one by one, Clark doesn’t say anything. Bruce’s mouth is hot on him through his cotton boxers, and when he settles back onto his heels, pulling out Clark’s dick in one callused hand, Clark makes eye contact again.

The suit is barely mussed, even if Bruce is, his pupils dilated, his mouth turning pink. Clark reaches down. He doesn’t know if he can touch Bruce’s hair, but he grabs onto his shoulder, feels muscles moving under the wool. 

Once Bruce’s mouth is on him, it takes all he has not to thrust up into it. They don’t have much time but Clark doesn’t want this to end soon. His fingertips brush against Bruce’s neck and Bruce makes a small noise around Clark, then sucks harder. Hands wrap around Clark’s waist, Bruce’s fingertips digging in. He sinks lower. Clark squeezes his shoulder and Bruce inches down even more, until his lips are at the base of Clark’s cock and Clark can’t help but rock up into it.

“God,” he says, and it sounds too loud in the empty alleyway, over the sound of Bruce’s mouth working, Bruce’s breath.

There’s no response, but Bruce sucks harder. Clark’s toes curl , and he manages a garbled noise, a warning, before he comes. 

  
  
  
  


“Alright,” Bruce says finally. His voice is rougher than normal. He’s sitting back on his heels. It’s dark enough now that Clark can’t make out all the lines of his face, or wouldn’t be able to, without his enhanced eyesight. But he uses it, and he looks down. 

“No,” Clark says. “Come up here, come on.” He yanks at Bruce’s shoulder until Bruce is standing, mouth red and a little swollen, hair falling into his eyes. Clark is struck by the urge to tuck the recalcitrant lock behind his ear, and he bites down on his lip. “You--”

He gestures loosely down, where Bruce is hard, where he’s distorting the fine lines of his suit pants. The back of his palm brushes over the bulge there, and Bruce looks down too, his lips quirking up at the corners. 

“I can take care of it,” he says. Still, he doesn’t move.

“Sure you can,” Clark says, but he reaches anyway, cups Bruce through his pants. Bruce makes a soft noise and rocks against him. For a moment Clark wonders-- would Bruce do this, grind against Clark’s hand in between his legs until he came-- 

He doesn’t push it. He’s careful when he unzips Bruce’s pants, sliding his palm over silky briefs. There’s a wet spot under his hand and Clark’s surprised. Maybe he shouldn’t be. He slips his hand under the waistband, curling his fingers around Bruce’s length, and Bruce shudders and sighs. 

They're still in the alleyway, and Clark  _ knows  _ what the citizens of Gotham get up in the fading light, he does. Still, he worries about getting caught, its implications on their professional reputations. Well, his-- Bruce has been able to take worse hits. 

It all flies out of his head again when Bruce bucks up into his hand. He seems undone, wants it enough that he's letting Clark do this to him. Clark keeps it simple, steady strokes, wrapping his free hand into Bruce’s hair and holding him in place. Bruce lets him do that too. He doesn’t say anything but he’s panting into Clark’s neck, and when he comes he bites back all his noise, muffling his lips against Clark’s throat. 

There’s a long moment where they look at each other, and then Bruce straightens his cuffs, his tie, his lapels, zips himself back into place. 

He’ll need to get his pants dry-cleaned, Clark thinks inanely. But Bruce Wayne is the type of person who wouldn’t think anything of that. 

There’s a spot of come on his hand and Clark lifts his palm to his mouth, licks it off without thinking. Bruce watches him do it, taking a long breath before he speaks. 

“Mr. Kent,” he says. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark echoes back.

“Good to do business with you, I suppose.” He inclines his head. His hair is out of order, but Clark has no doubt that, too, will be smoothed back into place.

Bruce leaves. Clark watches him go. 

Considering he’s probably just as ruffled, if not more so, it makes sense to fly home. 

  
  
  
  


He sees Batman at the next Justice League meeting. 

“Superman,” Batman says in that gravelly voice, inclining his head. “Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Clark says, and nods back. 

He wonders, sometimes, how long it’ll be necessary for them both to pretend. How long until they end up in an alley again in street clothes-- in a fine-cut suit and a reporter’s wrinkled attire.

Until then it's status quo. He turns to say hello to Diana, and saves one more glance for Bruce's retreating back. His shoulders are stiff. It could mean something. It probably doesn't. 

“Oh, you know,” Clark says, when Diana asks what he's been up to. “Just business as usual.”


End file.
